Overview:They met once, one from the city and another from the countryside.

He was a city boy. I was a country bumpkin. We never should have become like this.

"I love how quiet it is," he said.

I looked at him and lost myself in his green eyes, forgetting that he was not meant for this. He was meant for bigger things, for wearing a suit on the top level of a New York building, for driving a red Corvette down the streets of L.A., for flirting with girls in strapless dresses and high heels at a five-star hotel party.

Not this; not my rustic accent, not the smell of cut grass and manure and freshly baked apple pies, not the endless expanse of plains and trees and nature, not the runs over to the river and the naps on the hay, not the secret meetings behind the barn.

We met on a mild summer day when he pulled up and said he was lost. We were both 18 years old. The lack of city lights and squished houses of city life made him uncomfortable. I said, "Come in fer a drink and I'll give ya the directions." He looked hesitant. All city folks do when they come up. They live in lies, crimes, and suspicion. We live on instincts and faith. "I'm not gunna kill you and take your money, relax. Never experienced some country life b'fore, have ya?"

He came in and we talked. And talked. The sun had set and he looked up and groaned, "Oh, bloody time…I haven't even found a roadside inn yet. Do you—"

"Just stay here tonight. I'm sure mah old man won't mind."

We looked at each other and knew what was going to happen.

We snuck out at midnight to the river bank and fell and laughed and stared and couldn't get away from each other. This happened every summer he had come back to visit.

His lips were chapped and rough and he knew much more than me as he slipped his tongue in my mouth and easily took control of me. "This place is beautiful," he murmured onto my skin.

I was breathless and panting and his hand slid all over my body. "Then stay," I mumbled, thinking he wouldn't have heard. When he froze, I knew he did. My heart almost stopped.

"Al, you know I can't." He held himself up by his arms, palms on the grass by the sides of my head. Looking into his serious eyes, I knew it was a mistake. I didn't want to hear the regret in his voice. I didn't want to see the sadness in his eyes. I didn't want to feel the guilt and borderline pity from his touches.

We didn't speak and he kissed me again: slow, languid, and full.

His hand slipped under my clothes and a strong desire overtook me. I shivered and squirmed as he laughed softly, trailing his palm over each inch of my rough skin, in contrast to his softer, smoother hands.

We became a panting mess of hushed groans, whispered nonsense, and tugs of pleasure. After what seemed like an eternity and yet was also just a mere second, it all ended. Breathless, he lay beside me in the grass, wet with dew. Eyes shut, trying to catch my breath, I felt his mouth against my neck as he murmured, "Come with me…to the city."

I didn't reply, only ran my fingers through his messy shock of hair. We lay there until the sun came up and he cupped my cheek, gave me a long look, and kissed me lightly.

We didn't say good-bye, didn't say "see you later," didn't hug.

As I lay there, tears trickled down the side of my eyes, tickling my ear. I stayed there for a long time, possibly too long. The whole time, I wondered if he had cried, too. I hoped he did, because then at least it'd mean he felt as horrible as I did.

We shouldn't have met, shouldn't have become that close. He was a city boy; I was a country rustic. We couldn't leave either of our drastically different lifestyles for the other. We shouldn't have become like that.

I never saw him again, never heard from him. That was, until six years later, when a postcard came in the mail for me, with only two things scribbled on the back in his meticulous, cursive writing:

17 June

I stared, my heart pounding like those times his skin touched mine, my legs and hand shaking.

We met on a mild summer day when he pulled up and said he was lost. I would wait for him on the empty dirt road as he pulled up in his old Acura, shades on his pale face. Every summer since we met, on the seventeenth of June.

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